Middle Distance Runner
by wakingupred
Summary: It started when they were children. A brief exchange changed everything between them, although neither knew it at the time. As the years pass, Puck and Quinn come to understand what they really mean to each other. A multi-chapter fic.
1. The Day It All Begins

**a/n: **so, I'm trying something a little different here. Second person? Let me know what you guys think. As before, I do not own Glee or its characters in the slightest. This is also unbeta-ed, and it's five o'clock in the morning. There are bound to be mistakes. Sorry in advance!

* * *

You are seven years old when you fall in love with her. Seven years old and absolutely certain that love is just another term for friendship – nothing more, nothing less – but vaguely aware that something about her makes your fingers tingle. It's never happened before, not in the four years that you've known her, and yet…the bubbles in the pit of your stomach feel as though they have been there since the moment of your birth. They feel at home, they feel natural, and for the longest time, you cannot for the life of you, figure out why.

At seven years old, you have no idea how breaking a classmate's wrist can change your entire outlook on life so drastically, and you won't figure it out until high school, when everything else in your life starts to fall into place.

She upsets you, which is nothing new. Even at such a young age, little Quinn Fabray has a sharp, wicked tongue that takes pleasure in snatching your legs out from under you. You are used to it, as is everyone else she turns her attention to, but you can only be so patient. Your temper floats directly beneath the surface of your skin, not under multiple layers of protection like the other kids. Not like Finn, who is too stupid to recognize the insults that come his way. Not like Santana, who idolizes the blonde so much that she chooses to ignore them.

Not like anyone.

You are Puck, and a hothead, and everyone knows it, even her. She should know that her comment about your father's drinking habits would set you off. Call you stupid; call you ugly, you could care less. But insult your father, your hero? There is a line, and she crosses it.

All you do is push her, a little shove at the park after school, nothing horrid. You don't tackle her, punch her, or kick her when she is down (perhaps you might if she were Finn), but she is a _girl_ and fragile. You aren't surprised that her wrist snaps awkwardly when she hits the ground, or that tears immediately cloud her beautiful green eyes. In fact, you, the little boy with the black heart, stand stoically above her trembling figure, expression passive and blank as her lips quiver and her good arm clutches the other. It isn't until her mother stalks over – face vicious and staring directly at you – that it happens. She pulls her daughter up, shushing her and whispering an insincere "you'll be fine" before she tries to usher the little girl to the car. But Quinn has other plans.

Despite choking on tears, despite the pain she is undoubtedly feeling, she turns in your direction and glares. It is instantly the most terrifying thing you have ever seen in your life, even more so than that movie about a kid flying into a dream world on a bed. Why your mother thought you'd enjoy it, you don't know, but in a split second, you wish you were watching it instead of standing paralyzed as Quinn Fabray stalks toward you with _that_ look on her face.

She closes the gap between you, rears her leg back, and kicks you square in the shin.

Your leg immediately buckles at the impact, tears spring to your own eyes as you clutch your rapidly bruising limb, and for the first time in a very long time, you feel guilty. Not for hurting her (girls should be tougher, okay?), but because her mother is dragging her away by the shoulder scolding her for retaliating. It doesn't make any sense to you. Your dad always tells you that if someone hits you, you hit back no matter the situation. If someone breaks a bone of yours, you'll return the favor because it's only fair.

You watch the blonde duo walk away with a choked breath, the pain in your leg still stinging angrily, but the tears stop falling (not that you'd ever admit they fell in the first place). She's staring at you over her shoulder, chest heaving slightly, lips still shaking, but through the tears, there is a fire in her gaze that grasps a hold of yours. Suddenly, butterflies tickle the walls of your stomach and your breath catches in your throat, all because she refused to go down without a fight.

You decide that's why you like her. You want to be her friend because she isn't like the other girls; she's willing to kick back. Quinn Fabray takes matters into her own hands, even though the look on her mom's face is enough to even cripple the bravest person you know (you).

There's no fear in her eyes. Pain, sure. But fear? You're just two kids with nothing to be scared of, and to you, it makes perfect sense that you should be friends.

And aren't friends supposed to be in love?

* * *

You injure her on a Friday and don't expect to see her until the next Monday at school, so when your mom shuffles you into the family hatchback and announces rather vaguely that you're going to make amends, you're fairly surprised. Not completely shocked, since you noticed her answer a phone call earlier in the day looking rather exasperated, and while there are numerous situations that could cause such a reaction, the most recent is of your own doing.

You aren't even sure she knows about the incident, since it was your dad that accompanied you to the park and he didn't seem to think it was a big deal in the slightest ("They're kids, for fuck's sake. Let them fight."). However, you can't be sure of that theory; your parents start yelling – mostly your father – so you escape to the back yard to kick the soccer ball around, even though the welt on your multi-colored shin throbs every time you do.

Hell, you aren't quite sure what amends are, but if it means you get to see Quinn like you think it does, you'll try. There's a small part of you that thinks you're supposed to ask her to be you friend. You didn't have to ask Finn, but he's a guy, your brother. It's different with girls.

At least that's what you've heard.

The drive to the Fabray's house takes about fifteen minutes (fifteen _long_ minutes), but you forget about the uncomfortable tension that accompanied it the second you pull into their driveway and the shadow of the house looms over your small self. In reality, it isn't much larger than yours, but the difference in _quality_ is striking. They have a lawn that is nearly the perfect shade of green (yours is rather brown), a small garden with roses, tulips, and daffodils (at least you pretend that's what they are; you don't know one flower from another), and a beautifully cobbled pathway that leads to an arching wooden door (the pathway at your house has more cracks than you have hairs on your head).

You are convinced, in that moment, that you've arrived at a castle. An American version. Or an Ohio version. You aren't sure, but you know it's got to be one.

Which makes Quinn a Princess.

You think.

You're too in awe of the place to notice your mother's despondent look as the pair of you slowly make your way to the front door. If you did, you'd know exactly what it meant; she, too, was not fond of Mrs. Fabray. The woman in question answers the ringing doorbell with an overly gracious smile smothering her features, and you are immediately reminded why you dislike her so much; she is as fake as any one person could possibly be. She greets your mother with a quick hug, two pecks to the cheek, and invites her inside with a hint of pity lacing her voice.

You, on the other hand, frown as you pass by; an expression she returns by glaring at you as if you're a rotting corpse intent on tarnishing her perfectly polished wooden floors or bleeding on the cream colored carpet. You want to be a man and tell her off, but your resolve crumbles under her gaze, leaving you hurrying after your mother so you can hide behind her if the need arises. There are few things in life that truly frighten you – nothing, if you're completely honest – but that…_woman_ comes pretty damn close.

But you've got to suck it up, because if you and Quinn are going to be friends, you'll have to stand up to her at some point. If she can, so can you.

The inside of the Fabray household is just as well mannered as the outside, but less visually impressive to your seven year old self. Frankly, it's boring. There aren't any awesome posters like at your house, and you have the urge to break one of those horribly ugly crucifixes on the wall, though you manage to refrain. Somehow, you don't think the hawk circling your head would appreciate that very much.

You follow your mom into the kitchen where Quinn is sitting at the island, one hand enclosed with a thick, white cast, the other scribbling idly on a paper of sorts. She doesn't look too upset, as far as you can tell, which is definitely a good thing, but seeing a cast on her arm releases the floodgates on the guilt that you thought you'd gotten rid of the day before.

You were wrong.

With your stomach once again full of those nagging bubbles, you have to suppress the instinct to run out the door as fast as you can. All the eagerness you felt in marching into her house and demanding that you be friends has disappeared, leaving the guilt to seep in and eat away at your insides. This is exactly why you never care enough to be guilty. It's uncomfortable.

Her mother notices your eyes on daughter's cast and prompts rather nastily, "We're just lucky it wasn't her right hand." Her lips are pressed together, corners curled upward smugly as she waits for your reaction, for your reprimanding, but it doesn't come. Your mother counters with something about you being a boy and not aware of the strength differences, but you aren't really paying attention. With their attention focused solely on the debate about to erupt, you manage to wander over to Quinn and her stack of papers, intent on proposing your new relationship.

A friendship. Not like…marriage or anything. You have to be in your fifties for that. At least.

Before you can puff out your chest and make your demand, she swivels in her chair, nose high in a near perfect impression of her mother, and announces, rather bluntly, that she forgives you. To say it catches you off-guard is an understatement, because in your haste to present the argument for a friendship, _apologizing_ has slipped your mind completely. "Okay," you respond, relieved, yet worried at the same time. Fact is, you aren't one for sorries in the first place, so she'll just have to live with accepting one before it was offered. It's all she'll get.

She stares at you for a moment, brow slightly furrowed, before rolling her eyes and turning back to her work. You can tell its homework because of all the numbers on the page; although _why _she's doing homework on a Saturday _with_ a broken wrist is something that you can't fathom in the slightest. You don't want to interrupt her, but your ride doesn't seem to be anywhere near finished with her conversation, and there's no way in hell you're going to wander around the house. The urge to break something expensive has already been quelled once, but you don't trust yourself enough to do it a second time. And you're ninety-nine percent sure that Mrs. Fabray would know if you did something, merely by breathing the same air as you.

"Why white?" you asked instead, head nodding slightly in the direction of the cast.

"My mom said it goes better with my outfits," she responds, without removing her gaze from the paper in front of her. You suppose it makes sense, although that's a really stupid thing to make sense about. You would've picked blue. Or maybe red, because everyone would think that your arm was bleeding really badly all the time. Though you suppose that since she's a girl, she might not go for that kind of reasoning.

"That's boring," you state, fingers idly pinching one of the chairs beside you. She turns her attention to you, this time more curious than annoyed, and seems to consider what you've said. "I mean…you could at least draw a dinosaur on it or something."

You're prepared to unveil the nasty bruise on your leg, but your mother hurries over and quickly ushers you out the door, while Mrs. Fabray mutters something about her daughter finishing her studies. Before you know it, you're in the car, and the opportunity to ask for Quinn's friendship has been missed completely. It's okay though. You'll see her on Monday, so you can talk to her then.

* * *

The day arrives, but it doesn't progress like you plan. Her attitude towards you hasn't changed in the slightest. No more hatred, no more admiration, just the same old Quinn. The little girl with the surprisingly icy demeanor is undeterred by the thick cast on her arm, and actually seems to revel in the attention that it brings her. She even seems to enjoy informing her admirers that they aren't allowed to write on it, because it has to stay pristine or else.

Or else what, no one dares to ask.

You are unnecessarily grouchy that day, although why that is, you have no idea. You suppose it has something to do with the fact that you should have another friend right now, one besides Finn. You like Finn, sure, only problem is, he's still upset that his dad didn't come back from the war. You understand and all – you'd be pretty beat up if your pop never came home one day – but that was like six months ago. Too long to still be moping. He's just…not fun to hang out with anymore.

But Quinn is…smart. Yeah, she's angry a lot of the time, but you're kindred souls. You feel connected to her for no particular reason, and the fact that she still chooses to ignore you doesn't sit well in your stomach.

It takes to the end of the week for you to realize that there's a tiny drawing on her cast, in perhaps the most inconspicuous spot.

A dinosaur.

But all that does is confuse you even more.


	2. Falling Off the Face of the Earth

**A/N: **So here's another installation! Thank you guys so much for the kind words. I'm so self conscious about my writing, so your reviews really do make me feel better. Speaking of doubt, I'm not so sure about this chapter, but maybe you guys will like it. It's another from Puck's POV (the next will probably be Quinn's), and it turned out a lot more depressing than I thought it would. Regardless! Enjoy!

* * *

To your immense surprise, you receive an invitation to Quinn Fabray's eighth birthday party in the mail. It looks professionally made and flawless – like her – although something about it just isn't right. The card is smooth to the touch, colored with pastels and an artsy flower or two, but it's the neat, handwritten scrawl at the bottom that catches your attention: _Please don't bring any gifts._ You always figured that the reason for birthday parties was the presents, maybe the cake too, so asking to exclude them is a request that you can't comprehend.

But you received one, and that was good enough for the moment. It worried you that everyone in your class seemed to have an invite at school, and you were left empty-handed and embarrassed. Even Finn could be seen with one crammed into the back pocket of his jeans. You, on the other hand? Nothing. For all you knew, you were more popular than he was; the idea that he'd be invited to a party that you weren't was laughable. But as the day went on and Quinn showed no intention of tossing you a bone, your mood disintegrated rapidly.

She had that affect on you.

Now though, with the card in your hands, you can feel your feet again. The need to _contemplate_ shedding a few tears was gone completely, though you were honestly only thinking about it. You are Noah Puckerman, you don't cry because someone (more specifically: _she_) didn't invite you to a birthday party.

They always end up being really lame anyways, at least the ones for the girls do. Matt Rutherford might have been sent to the hospital during his, but at least you got a free game of laser tag out of it. Tyler Kowalski gave out gift bags with ninja stars. As cool as a bounce house is, cute little bracelets and party hats really can't compare.

You're just happy that she doesn't hate you enough to make you the _only_ kid in the class not invited to her party. And now you don't have to worry about buying a present. You can't understand why she doesn't want them in the first place, but you won't complain. It's her loss, not yours.

The look your mother has when she sees the card for herself is cryptic and an expression that you don't understand. While your smile widened immensely at the invitation, she furrows her brow and purses her lips. It takes three reads before she seems to comprehend its intentions, but the smile she throws you is false and empty. Even you can see that. But while it nags at a very deep part of your mind, you don't let it affect the excitement you have about spending more time with _her_.

* * *

Even though her birthday is on a Thursday, the party is held on the following Sunday, right after church. Your mother snorts when she is reminded of this, because it's, as she says, "such a typical thing for them to do." Of course they'd want to celebrate the birth of one of their perfect daughters on a _holy _day. You don't understand the fuss, especially since Quinn pretty much is perfect. It only makes sense that the two would be related and honored on the same day.

Not that you consider her a God or…Goddess, or whatever. You just suspect that if God does want you to be the best, most moral and intelligent person out there, she's a pretty damn good person to emulate, even if she does tend to respond to you rather shortly. Nobody's perfect, and you don't think it can be easy having to put up with idiots like yourself all the time.

Her mother brings a plate of immaculately sculpted cupcakes to school on her actual birthday, and you, as well as the rest of class, can't help but stare at them the rest of the day, just waiting for a chance to taste the butter cream frosting swirled on the top. Just like usual, they're reserved for teasing, another chance for the youngest Fabray to display her power over the rest of you. They're only handed out in the last ten minutes of the day, and you're fairly sure they're the reason you miss five questions on your vocabulary test. You spent all week studying for it, and you knew the words. But that plate of cupcakes was in your direct line of sight, hogging your attention, stealing your focus. It's the only reason.

Your mom isn't happy when you report the score to her later that day, particularly because it was _she_ who helped you memorize all the spelling and definitions, but your father comes home as she's beginning her lecture and her rant is directed elsewhere. As his hands strip the tie from around his neck, he informs the room that he needs the other car for the weekend because his needs to go to the shop for a transmission problem and there's a conference of some sort that he has to attend. Immediately, your heart sinks. You can feel your face fall, the color draining as your parents begin to argue over who needs it more ("I'm the bread-winner here, Shiri. You _want_ me to get fired?" – "Spend a week running this house, then we'll talk, _David."_), but you've heard the yelling before. You're too aware of how it progresses, so you're sitting on the steps of the front porch before it really starts, prepared to spend a good amount of time saving your ears from destruction.

You even consider walking to Finn's house, since he doesn't live too far away, but it's almost dark and you're not _that_ tough. Having to pass Mr. Nelson's house on the way is something you intend to avoid at all costs, especially because of that new dog he just bought.

The day hasn't gone your way at any point, except maybe with that really good cupcake, but for some reason, you're not ready for it to be over just yet. You don't want to think, you don't want to sleep; you just want to be blank, just like you are at that moment. Sometimes thinking hurts too much. Sometimes you can _feel_ it too much.

At some point, you move to the curb so you can toss around the rocks on the street. You aren't sure how long you're out there, but it's long enough that your mom steps outside for a smoke. She's surprised to see you in the poor lighting from the street lamps, and orders you inside at once, because it's _late _and you've got a soccer game in the morning.

As you trudge up to your room, the only thing on your mind is the question of whether or not you'll have to walk.

* * *

Sure enough, your father ends up with the only working car, but your mother arranges a ride with Finn for the game and Quinn's birthday party the next day. Your team loses, as usual, mainly because Finn is a horribly uncoordinated goalkeeper, but he's by far the best you've got. You'd take over the responsibility, but you're still too short to do any good in that situation. You don't care too much about the loss though, even though winning in sports is really all you've got these days. There are other things on your mind: your parents, your grades, and Quinn's birthday party, to name a few. You're so anxious about the party that you're outside on your porch a good half hour before Finn arrives to pick you up. You tried watching television, doing homework (yeah right), and kicking the soccer ball against the tree in the back yard, but nothing you attempt holds your attention for long enough. All that's on your mind is seeing her and maybe, _finally_, getting the nerve to apologize for that little incident last year.

Mrs. Hudson pulls up in that aging station wagon, and you slip into the backseat next to Finn with a short hello leaving your lips. He's got that trademark goofy grin plastered on his face, and it looks like his mom has forced a comb through that mob of hair on his head, which causes you to smirk in his direction. _Your _hair is too long and too messy, but that's just the way you roll. Fancy party or not, that isn't going to change.

But the next thing that catches your eye makes your heart leap into your throat. There is a bag sitting on his lap, one with festive decorations on the side and tissue paper peaking out of the top. He has a present, a gift, and you are going to show up to Quinn Fabray's birthday party empty-handed. But you were _told_ not to bring a present. You saw the directions that explicitly said so. Your mom re-read the invitation multiple times. There was no way…no way.

You turn towards the window as Mrs. Hudson pulls out of your driveway, staring as hard as you can at the passing scenery to try and steady your fluttering heart. But there is no relief. With every block that flies by, you feel more and more nauseous, more and more humiliated that you didn't even bring one, _just in case._

It just doesn't make any sense.

The excitement that you had at the prospect of this party is gone immediately, instead leaving a consuming sense of dread in the pit of your stomach. You want to go home. You could pretend to be sick, maybe you could even be sick for real (with the way you're feeling at the present, it wouldn't be a stretch).

Even the walk to the front door of the Fabray's house, which left you mesmerized the first time you trekked it, has lost all of its glamour, all of its appeal.

You just want to die.

Mrs. Hudson escorts you and Finn, who's clutching that stupid bag against his chest, past the balloons on the mailbox and the streamers on the columns to the door, and knocks sharply against the perfectly polished wood. The horrid clenching of your gut reaches its climax as the woman of the house opens the door, the usual carefully constructed smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

She's got crow's feet.

"Carole, darling, so glad you could make it." She does that ridiculous double kiss and hug before ushering the three of you into the house. She instructs Finn to place his gift on the dining room table, while raising an eyebrow approvingly at the fact that you seem to be without one. But she says nothing more about the miscommunication, which surprises you. It doesn't make you feel any better at all, but at least she isn't drawing attention to your empty hands. Perhaps your presence will be lost amongst the rest of the guests and Quinn won't even realize you managed to forget a gift.

At this point, it's all you can hope for.

You know everyone at the party at least by face except for one person: a little blonde girl named Brittany who lives next to Santana. Someone informs you that she's a grade younger than the rest of you, which is why you don't recognize her, but you're almost positive that you wouldn't know her regardless. You've never cared much for branching out, even within your own class. You're good with Matt, Mike, Santana, Quinn, Finn, and the other random, slightly less awesome kids; there really isn't any need to spread your wings further than that.

The party is, without a doubt, the worst one you've ever had the misfortune of attending, and while it starts with your lack of a present, absolutely nothing makes it any better, not even the cake. You meet Quinn's father for the first time in your life, after being introduced by his mom as "that little Jewish boy from her class". He purses his lips and _tries _to smile, though you can see the struggle behind his eyes.

You don't realize it then, but years later, you come to understand that it isn't just the fact that you're fairly poor and from a broken home that makes them dislike you so intensely. What sets them off is the fact that you are _Jewish_, and a threat to their daughter's perfect Christian lifestyle.

You don't realize it then, but the look that her father gives you is still enough to make you uncomfortable, just like all those that her mother sends in your direction. Even her sister seems to glare at you, though you've never given her any reason to dislike you.

It's too girly and grown-up. There aren't any cool colors or decorations, just a lot of flowers and a lot of pink and yellow. You knew it would be like this, you _knew_ it, but you thought maybe, just maybe, talking to Quinn would be worth suffering through all the pretentious crap.

But she's avoiding you. You and the majority of the boys there, but that still means _you._ So you're left standing outside by the food table, shifting from foot to foot with downcast eyes and a heavy heart. You didn't bring a present, her parents hate you, your parents are fighting (as usual), and now you're pretty sure that any chance you had at a friendship with her has disappeared completely.

Just…gone.

Finally, after the presents and the cake (and a shitty game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey), Quinn wanders in your direction, looking as effortlessly immaculate as always in an airy, lilac dress, and all you can do is tuck your hands into the tattered khakis that your mom forced you into. She gnaws on her lip as she fiddles with a scratch on the tablecloth, clearly trying to think of an opening line, but you don't want her to say anything. You just want to escape this party without any more damage than you've already accumulated, and her speaking to you usually doesn't end well.

"I'm sorry your invitation was late," she finally says, and you're sure the surprise is evident on your face. You've _never_ heard her apologize to anyone. _Anyone_. There you are, a lowly, poor boy that forgot to bring her a gift, and she's apologizing to _you._ It's her birthday party; you have half a mind to gush about how sorry you are about everything, especially the broken wrist thing, but for some reason the words catch in your throat as you stare at her. Confidence really isn't your specialty, not yet, at least. "My mom wanted to put it in the mail. I don't know why." All you can do is nod slowly, with that glum, dreary fog falling directly over your person.

"Is that why you didn't bring a present?"

You freeze. The only thing that could've made this occasion any worse was her finding out that you had nothing to offer her, so you begged and pleaded with God to save you from that humiliation, keep some pride remaining in your body.

Even he was against you.

Everyone was against you.

_Everyone._

"Not that I really care. I got enough, but…I was just wondering."

You can feel it coming, the anger. You're sick of all the wrongs, you're sick of luck passing you by at every opportunity. It isn't _fair_. You don't care how much faith you're told you need to have, you don't want to have _any_ if this is how it's going to reward you. The muscle in your jaw twitches as you and Quinn stare at each other, and you can see her brow furrowing more and more each second as you try and keep yourself from lashing at her. She's too perfect to deserve your anger. She's too _good_, too much your opposite.

You almost manage to keep it in check. The chex-mix is right at your fingertips, so you eat a handful after mumbling a quick sorry, and it really does help. With the food in your mouth, you've got something else to focus on besides the growing hatred for the world building up in your soul.

But then _she_ has to come check on her daughter. _She_ has to see why her little Quinnie's spent so much time isolated with the ill-mannered Jewish boy, and you snap. The dam breaks and everything you've felt for the past week crashes out, overloading your already fragile system.

"I _hate_ you," you blurt out as she swoops in behind Quinn, a look of complete shock etched into the older woman's features. "I hate you and this stupid birthday party. It's all _stupid_…and _crappy_."

Your breath is coming in quick bursts and your heart is pounding against your chest as the stares start to turn in your direction, but you don't see any of them. You see yourself turning the bowl of chex-mix over the remaining slices of red velvet cake, and throwing a bottle of Sprite against the fence in the backyard. Tears are slowly crawling down your cheeks, you can feel them, but you ignore them. You just…you can't. You can't anything. You just _can't_.

But lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson is hanging around, waiting for the right moment to extract you and Finn, and immediately rushes to your side before you can cause any more damage. She offers a hurried apology to the Fabray's and then ushers you back to the car with her own son trailing slowly behind looking like an exceedingly lost puppy. Before you know it, the car is parked in the Hudson's driveway, and she's looking at you like a concerned mother should.

"Are you alright, sweetie?" You want to answer, to thank her, but your face is wet and your breath is hitched, leaving your only action to be a languid nod.

"I want to go home," you manage to choke out, and she smiles sadly before starting the car again. The drive is short, and gives you absolutely no time to compose yourself before facing your mom, but it doesn't matter. The second you're in the driveway, you jump out of the car and into the house, crashing into her arms just as she's standing up from the sofa. It's obvious she has no idea what's going on (Mrs. Hudson promises to explain when things have calmed down), but she's there for you. The warm embrace of her arms is so comforting that the tears start falling even faster than before. Yet…everything feels better. You're still angry. You still want to scream at everything, but she's running a hand over your back soothingly and whispering calm words into your ear.

You are eight years old and the world is falling apart, but she is there to catch you.


	3. Your Wicked Demise

**a/n:** I am sooo sorry this took so long. I really really dislike it (for some reason, Quinn's pov is so insanely hard for me to write), but I just wanted to get it published and move on. Don't be surprised if I edit this at some time in the future lol.

* * *

You don't spend much time worrying about Noah Puckerman. In fact, you spend so little time pondering his outburst at your party that you consider it no time wasted at all. Why should it matter if he's got issues? Doesn't affect you at all. Despite the mess of a party, your life is about as perfect as it can get, and you know it. You're smart, pretty, spoiled, and popular. At eight years old, that is all that could ever be important. Still, as your mom resets the disarrayed snack table behind you, muttering things you're certain her church friends wouldn't approve of, you can't look away from Puck's retreating figure. You watch with knitted brows as Mrs. Hudson ushers him out the door, because, worth your concern or not, you are an intelligent young girl and his behavior flicks at your curiosity like a petulant child. Like him, you suppose. But not a minute after he's left your sight, you are back to being Quinn Fabray, calm and collected in spite of the temporary distraction. You have better things to do with your time than worry about some messed up little boy.

So you plaster on that gracious little smile you've perfected, practically curtsy whenever an adult approaches you, and make sure that your flawless manners are on display. If you hadn't already, you win over everyone in attendance with what a cute, well-behaved little girl you are. Your popularity will skyrocket after this, especially since you dealt with that little 'incident' with such poise. It's inevitable. Everything with you is inevitable. Prom queen, head cheerleader, most attractive female, most likely to succeed, best smile, most fun to be around…most sought after girlfriend. At eight years old, you don't even know what inevitable means, but ten years from now, you'll look back at this party and say that yes, you did know what kind of person you'd turn into.

And that would be so close to the truth. _So_ close.

But for the remainder of the party, your mind is not on the future. It is on the present, the soon-to-be past.

Santana whispers inane gossip into your ear, you're pretty certain you saw Brittany having a thorough conversation with a painting in your foyer, Mike Chang gets stuck in the entrance to the moon bounce three times, and Carly Smith eats so much red velvet cake that she throws up on her mother's mary janes. But you expect all of that. Well, if not expect, you certainly aren't surprised. There isn't much that catches you off guard these days.

Except…him.

At the end of the day, you find yourself wondering what it was that made him snap. Was it you? You want to ask your mother, but you're still angry that she's donating the EasyBake oven you received to the church. You already have one, yes, but having two would mean you could bake two things at one time. And it was [i]your[/i] present, after all. You should be the one that decides what to do with it.

Besides, you already know what she would say. "He's just jealous, baby. Don't worry your pretty little head about that boy." As jealous as you're sure he is, something tells you that has nothing to do with it.

Instead of broaching the topic at all, you continue pouting as your mother helps you sort through the remainder of your gifts, lips downturned and jaw set so she realizes just how upset you are. She does, of course, but says nothing until the collection of inappropriate and/or excessive gifts is tucked safely into the back of her car for tending to. "Honey, get over it. They're just toys, you have plenty." She grasps your chin with her thumb and first finger, smile lingering on her pale lips but nowhere close to reaching her eyes.

It's not fair. It's not fair that you don't get to keep all of your gifts. So what if Finn's gummy worms are bad for your teeth. You brush your teeth three times a day and you've never had a cavity. Not even after the time your sister told you to eat the whole bag of m&m's your mom had hidden in the cabinet. You might've been sick for three straight days, but you didn't have any cavities. And if you didn't have any then, you wouldn't have any now.

You open your mouth to protest, but she's already dropped her hand and started towards the kitchen to prepare dinner, leaving you standing in the foyer with downcast eyes and willfully strong pout. Not a second later though, she invites you to help with the meal and the expression is but a ghost in your eyes.

The last time you think you'll ever wonder about Noah Puckerman and his internal motives occurs that night when your father is tucking you into bed. You aren't ready to go to sleep, even though you are utterly exhausted, but he presses his lips against your forehead and your eyes flutter closed on their own accord. His weight lifts off your bed and you watch him pace towards the door with an urge suddenly rising in your throat, driving sleep away from your mind.

"Daddy?" the soft question escapes before you can retract it, forcing you to consider your words very carefully. You want to ask him the same question you failed to ask your mother, but…you have a feeling he'd answer in the same manner. For once, you just want them to be honest. You want to know why Noah Puckerman, of all people, [i]hates[/i] you. Because as far as you know, no one else hates you. Why should he be any different?

Your father pauses at the doorway, one hand on the frame and a soft look tossed over his shoulder, and you immediately know that you have to ask. He would never lie to you, and right now, the moment in question is nagging at the back of your mind, begging for some kind of resolution. "Yes, Quinnie?" You have to bite your lip to keep the words from just falling out of your mouth, and he doesn't miss the hesitation. A short second later, he's perched on the edge of you bed again, a hand resting on your legs through the comforter with slightly pursed lips and a curiously furrowed brow. "What is it, darling?"

You worry at your lip for a few moments longer, trying to sort through the thoughts in your mind and the words that you want to say, but you don't even know where to start. This is a situation that you've never been in before. No one's ever admitted they hated you, let alone screamed it at you while ruining your birthday party. You aren't sure whether to ask about him or you or…both? But you decide that you did absolutely nothing wrong, so it must be him. It has to be him, because it doesn't make sense otherwise. You had been [i]nice[/i] to him.

"Why does he hate me?" You watch as he quirks his brows in momentary confusion, swallowing hard and feeling more vulnerable than you've ever felt in your life. They've always taught you not to care about the other kids. You can have friends and feel connected to them, but you must watch how close you get to anyone. People are deceitful and irresponsible (unlike you), and they will let you down. It's inevitable. You cannot let their feelings influence your own life, because this…these emotions tugging at your heart will happen more often than you can handle. This confusion, this utter loss is enough to last you a lifetime, so you won't let it happen again.

Ever.

Recognition floods your father's eyes, causing his lips to purse even further and you wonder for a second if he's going to get angry with you. The last time you asked such a stupid question, he ignored it and told you to stop being foolish. But you pray he won't this time. You pray, despite the selfishness of asking for something so small and trivial, because it won't leave you alone and you don't know why. You can't understand why it's bothering you so much, and that is the worst part. You aren't really even friends. To you, there is absolutely no logical reason why Noah's words keep ringing in your ears like a soft, distant echo with no source.

You've been in arguments before, Santana's told you she hated you more times than you care to count, but she never meant it. Ten minutes later and she'd be begging you for forgiveness.

Maybe that's the problem. Did he mean it? How could he hate you when you invited him to your birthday party? It just didn't make any sense…you need it to make sense.

Your father sighs loudly, but you don't look at him until his hand nudges your chin upwards. From the familiar expression etched into his furrowed brow, you get the feeling that another lecture on the nature of jealousy is about to occur, but he surprises you. His eyes soften, and although they are still hard and full of that familiar bite, he seems genuinely concerned that these thoughts are still causing you turmoil. You suppose that's why you love him so much.

Because…there's a lot that you don't understand about life.

You try to pretend as though you have an angle, a perspective that others don't, so you can comprehend things that no one else does. But at the end of the day, you're just as naïve and ignorant as the rest of them. You don't know why the sky is blue, why the world turns, or why boys act the way they do, but you are eight years old and fairly certain that you aren't supposed to. You are too young to be expected to know everything.

And yet, your mother tells you things as if they're common knowledge, which makes you wonder if you're just too slow to pick them up on your own.

But your father? Even if he is harsh and cold at times, the man will not lie to you. He does what he can to make you feel better without manipulating the present information, and you appreciate that. You appreciate it because there are only so many snide, untruthful comments that you can take falling from your mother's lips.

He's _there_, consoling you in his odd way, and making you feel stronger, just like that. "He doesn't hate you, Quinnie. No one hates you; you're a perfect little angel."

So close. He's ruined it again, smiling at you with your mother's smile

"The fact of the matter is, the boy doesn't know how to love. Now, those Jews can have their religion. They can believe what they want, it doesn't mean a lick of a difference to me, but as long as they refuse to believe that Jesus Christ is God's son, they'll never be capable of completely loving anything. How do we learn to love, Quinn?"

You hesitate. He's gone on another religious rant, and while you have certainly learned to appreciate the honesty laced in his words, it isn't what you want to hear. It never is. But you hold back the sigh that perches itself at the edge of your throat, blinking it away until you can meet your father's gaze again.

"Come on, you know the answer to this"

You hesitate again, but this time the answer falls from your lips on it's own accord.

"Because God gave up his son for us?"

"Exactly. God loved us so much that he sacrificed his only child to save us. That is the very basis for love itself. So let me ask you this…how can he love if he doesn't believe in that?"

"He can't." The point he's trying to make is instantly clear, but it takes a moment for that to _actually_ register in your mind. If you're honest, it makes perfect sense. You've been taught all along that you love, because God loves you. And Noah... well, you aren't sure about him and his beliefs. Like your father always said, it doesn't concern you.

"Correct. So don't you worry your pretty little head over him. He doesn't deserve you anyways. Not in any way, shape, or form."

He ends his speech with a chirp and that smile you can't stand, but his lips are on your forehead again before he's out the door and things… seem okay. You feel better. Part of you, at least. The other isn't quite sure that the reasoning he's given you is acceptable, but it's no matter. You're too tired to dwell on thoughts of Noah Puckerman anymore.

* * *

By the next day, the conversation with your father leaves little doubt that you'll never worry about that boy again. You had your moment of weakness, of curiosity, but it has passed and will not return. There is no sympathy in your eyes when they meet his red-rimmed ones the next morning, a void your expression copies with a haughty upwards tilt of your nose. You don't care if he's cried because of the party, since he certainly deserved it, a fact that he's obviously aware of with the way he immediately looks away.

The party is perhaps the first time he's done something you would never associate with Noah Puckerman. A few days before school is out for the summer, a bunch of your classmates catch him picking flowers at recess and have a good laugh at the red-handed boy's expense. "Boys don't pick flowers," they say through waves of laughter. He promptly tosses them on the ground and crushes them with the hard toe of his boot, muttering something about that being his intention all along. The gang of boys seem to buy it and eventually scatter off after another brief exchange, but you don't. You watch from the bench a few feet away, a book in your lap and a curious expression constant on your face. He doesn't leave with the others like you expect. Instead, he hang s around, watching them meander away while his feet kick idly at the dirt and leaves that surround them. After a moment of the same pattern, Noah bends down and picks the broken flowers off of the ground, far more gently than you're ever used to seeing him be. He cradles them in one hand and uses the other to attempt to right them, to fix them, though it seems like a worthless cause to you. They were broken beyond repair; there was never any point in wasting time on _fixing_ them. But something in the way he stares at those flowers made the retort you have bubbling in your stomach dissipate the second it reaches your throat. It's forlorn, full of longing and regret. There is nothing in that moment that you can force yourself to say, not when the boy looks so incredibly vulnerable.

So you swallow the urge and let him have whatever moment he is having while you return to your book. But before you can flip to the next page, his eyes find yours and the both of you straighten with shock. You see his brow furrow, eyes darting around as they search your own, though he does not say anything for that brief moment. It's when he sets his jaw and stalks past your bench that he mutters something about the flowers being for his sister.

That excuse lasts for a brief minute, because you know for a fact he has no sister. He's an only child, everyone knows this. You're too busy with your silent fuming to think about the actual meaning behind his words, because _no one_ lies to you. Not so blatantly. Not when you hadn't planned on involving yourself in the matter anyways.

You won't take that kind of behavior.

So you let slip to Dave, on accident of course, that Noah held onto those bruised flowers and next thing you know, a fight as broken out in the middle of class.

You are the only one in class that doesn't scream or panic. The boys are all out of their seats, some attempting to join in the fray and others cheering animatedly from the sideline, while the girls pretend to be appalled, though you can see the curiosity lingering in their eyes.

But you? No.

You lean back in your chair with the ghost of a smirk curling your lips, silently appreciating the damage that you've caused.


End file.
